


Secret Santa

by LeanaM



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 01:19:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12924243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeanaM/pseuds/LeanaM
Summary: It was Hermione's idea to organise a secret santa among the eighth years. Harry never expected any special gifts, and he certainly didn't know he'd get more than that, either.





	Secret Santa

  
  


 

It had seemed such a good idea when Hermione suggested it. “We all need to spread some Christmas cheer,” she’d said. “Why not organise a Secret Santa?” Nobody had opposed her idea, so she had gone ahead and assumed everyone agreed. One morning, two weeks before the end of term, the eight-year common room was decorated with over a dozen stockings, each marked with lopsided initials. That same morning, everyone received a scroll at breakfast, bearing the name of the person they were to give presents to for the last week of term. 

Harry considered himself lucky. He’d drawn Hermione, and he knew exactly what to get her. Books on obscure arithmancy and ancient runes, self-inking quills, sugar-free sweets… Hermione was easy.

He hadn’t expected to receive anything other than sweets or Quidditch gear himself. But there, he was wrong.

The last Monday of the term, he stood before his stocking, quite speechless. Somehow, his Secret Santa had managed to hide a whole box of fresh treacle tarts into the stocking. They were still warm, even. Just the way he liked them. His mouth began to water just at the thought. 

Ron looked over his shoulder and whistled. “Nice one, Harry,” he said. “And it’s a Fresh Box. It’ll keep the tarts on temperature and tasting fresh for a week. Lucky you. I got a copy of an old Quibbler.” He pouted. 

Harry laughed. “I’ll share these with you,” he promised.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Harry woke up excited to see what his Secret Santa had left for him that day, only to be disappointed by the empty stocking. He tried to keep his face from showing the disappointment, but it was a futile effort. 

“Nothing, Potter?” came Malfoy’s teasing drawl. “Your Secret Santa ran out of inspiration that quickly?” 

Harry rolled his eyes at Malfoy. “What’d you get, then,” he asked, a little peevishly. Malfoy smirked at him, which made Harry even more irritated. 

“A lovely emerald cashmere scarf, Potter. Just the colour of your eyes, in fact.” Malfoy held the scarf up next to Harry’s face. “Don’t you agree, Theo? Just the same colour.” 

Theodore Nott looked up from his book with a sigh. His blue eyes scrutinised Harry and the scarf. The intense look made Harry squirm uncomfortably. Everything about Theodore Nott made him uncomfortable, in the best and worst way.

“Your scarf is a little darker, Draco,” Nott said, in a bored voice. He turned back to his book without paying them any further attention. 

Malfoy grinned at Harry, then whisked the scarf away and tied it around his neck. He put his arm around Pansy’s shoulders. “Let’s get to breakfast, Pans, and leave these grumpy idiots alone.”

Harry didn’t watch them leave. He felt his stocking again, but there really was nothing in there this time. He suppressed a sigh, and when Hermione and Ron entered the common room, he accompanied them to the Great Hall without further thoughts of his Secret Santa. 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry only entered the common room again after a long game of Quidditch. He was so exhausted, he just wanted to go to bed for a nap, but something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. There was something in his stocking, after all. In two strides he crossed the common room and put his hand in his stocking. Out came a bottle of the best broom polish, a new quill, and a small bottle with a label reading,  _ PepperUp. So you don’t get ill after flying in the rain.  _

Harry pocketed everything and retreated to the room he shared with Ron. He laid his treasures out on his bed. The Fresh Box, with a seemingly unending supply of treacle tarts at  _ just  _ the right temperature, was sitting next to his bedside table. 

The broom polish was his own favoured brand, and he had been meaning to get a new bottle for the longest time. His Firebolt needed some love, but he kept forgetting. His Secret Santa hadn’t though. 

The quill was just like his own, only shining and new. The same reddish brown feather, the same type of nib. His old quill kept leaking these days. He’d been borrowing Hermione’s for most of last week. And his Secret Santa had noticed.

Then there was the potion.  _ PepperUp. So you don’t get ill after flying in the rain. _ He’d suffered from a bad cold in November after the friendly Quidditch game the eight-years had organised. And his Secret Santa had  _ remembered _ . He carefully twisted the cap off the bottle and sniffed. His nose was assaulted by a mixture of peppermint and ginger. It certainly smelled like PepperUp. He’d ask Hermione to test it before taking it, though. Enough people had tried to slip him love potions in the past few months for him not to be a little suspicious. Yet somehow he felt Hermione would find that the potion was absolutely safe.

Harry was right. Hermione took the potion with her, disappearing for a few hours, then joining him and Ron again for dinner, tossing the vial at him. “Perfectly safe,” she announced. “Now take it, before you catch a cold again. Don’t think I don’t know you were out flying, Harry Potter. In the snow, no less.” She shook her head in disapproval. “Theo and I were working on our assignments all day, but you and Ron have to go and fly every chance you get. I don’t know why you came back if not to study for your NEWTS.”

Harry sighed in exasperation. “I’m not having this discussion again,” he said. “You know why. Leave it, Hermione.” 

Hermione looked ready to argue further, but he sent her such a pleading look that she gave in. She began to lecture Ron on his table manners instead. 

“Granger always that bossy?” Malfoy asked as he slid into the seat next to Harry. “Thought she’d have grown out of that by now. She tried to boss you around for seven years and never had much success.” 

Harry laughed, despite himself. Malfoy had become a good - if not quite  _ friend,  _ at least companion. He had a wicked sense of humour, and was one of the few who never treated Harry as anything other than a fellow student. 

Nott sat down across from them. “So why  _ did  _ you come back?” he asked. “I’m sure they’d have given you any job you liked in the Ministry, or anywhere, really. Great Saviour and all that.” 

Harry scowled at him, and Nott looked surprised, then bent his head over his plate to avoid Harry’s glare. 

“I came back to have a normal year,” he bit out. “One year at Hogwarts where nobody wants to kill me, maim me or hurt me. One year at Hogwarts where I can be just like anyone else. Surely that’s not too much to ask?”

Nott looked up again and met his gaze. “No,” he said quietly. “That’s not too much.”

Harry, who had been ready to enter a shouting match, deflated suddenly. “Not that it is all that normal, being eight-years and all that.”

Malfoy nodded in mock sympathy. “Yes, must be so hard, no longer being the Chosen One. Just a face in the crowd, really. Not as if you are being adored and admired by your crowd of fans every single day.” 

Harry grimaced. The other Hogwarts students did have a habit of following him around, treating him like he was special. He hated it. Still, it was better than being accosted by adult wizards and witches every time he set foot outside Grimmauld Place. 

“Don’t worry, Potter,” Nott said, with a smirk. “You’ll always have Draco’s undying love, no matter how obscure your existence becomes.”

Malfoy turned bright red, which made Harry chuckle. He threw an arm around Draco and leaned his head on his shoulder. “Why, thank you, Malfoy. You’ve given me a reason to live now.” 

Malfoy shrugged Harry’s arm off and pushed him away a little. “Always so dramatic, Potter.”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry woke up in giddy anticipation of what his Secret Santa had in store for him today. He’d managed to hide another obscure book in Hermione’s stocking late the night before, though he’d almost been caught by Nott, who had entered their common room long after everyone else had gone to bed and Harry finally felt safe enough to deliver the present. They had exchanged awkward goodnights before each hurrying off to their rooms. Strange guy, Nott, Harry thought while he changed his pyjamas for his uniform after a quick wash. He’d become friendly with most Slytherins but Nott seemed to keep his distance.

The parcel in his stocking was a small rectangle wrapped in brown paper. On it was a note, written in handwriting that Harry didn’t recognise. “Open when alone.” He was intrigued and wanted to return to his room immediately, but at that moment Ron and Hermione arrived to accompany him to breakfast, so he pushed the parcel in his satchel and walked with them. He could feel it burning through several layers of leather and cloth, though. He hardly paid any attention to his friends, ate without knowing what he put in his mouth, and was generally so distracted that Ron had to call his name several times before he answered.

“You alright, mate?” 

Harry shrugged. “Just distracted.”

Ron leaned in a little closer and waggled his eyebrows. “Thinking of anyone we know?”

Harry shook his head irritatedly. His cheeks heated under Ron’s intense stare. 

“Don’t tease him, Ron,” Hermione said. “If he wants to tell us, he will.” She smiled at Harry, winked at him, then changed the subject. “My Secret Santa seems to be giving me a whole new library. I got another book today, this time on the pre-Runic language Ogham, which was used in divination and spells long before the Vikings brought Runes to Britain.”

Ron barely suppressed a yawn, but Harry was gratified to see the excitement in her eyes. He racked his brain to try and find something intelligent to say, but was quite lost. He had never really taken to Ancient Runes, let alone have an interest in anything that might predate them.

“A book on Ogham?” Malfoy leaned forward eagerly. “Not Wendolyn Terrence’s Analysis of  Ogham and Futhark?”

Hermione nodded, and they began a long discussion on the subject that Harry gave up on trying to follow about two words in. He exchanged a glance with Ron and turned to his… porridge. Apparently he was eating porridge. He hated porridge. He sighed into his bowl. He just wanted to leave and find out what this present was that he was supposed to open only when alone. Out of nowhere, Mad-Eye Moody’s voice echoed through his brain.  _ Constant vigilance _ . He’d have to check it for curses, first. The thought made him grimace.

“What’s wrong, Potter?”  Harry looked up to find Nott staring at him. “Porridge not to your liking?” 

Harry tried to shake off his gloomy thoughts. He didn’t quite answer the question, but instead began a conversation with Nott and Ron about the Quidditch teams, and who they thought would win this year’s House Cup. 

Harry only escaped to his room around lunchtime, by which time he had been so on edge, he had snapped to each and every one of his fellow students for the silliest things. His curiosity was killing him. After a few perfunctory checks for curses and jinxes, he unwrapped the brown paper, only to find a small, leather-bound journal. He felt vaguely disappointed. Had he really been on tenterhooks for this? 

He noticed something sticking out from the pages and opened the journal. It contained wizarding photos of children he, at first, didn’t recognise. Then he saw the grin of one boy with messy black hair and knew,  _ knew _ , it was Sirius. A five-year old Sirius with his brother Regulus, hovering in the air on practise brooms in some garden or other. Sirius and a girl, quite a bit older than him, making faces at the camera. Again, there was something familiar about her, and it took him a moment to recognise Andromeda. 

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t have anything left from Sirius. He’d hardly had two years with the man, and even those years they’d been kept apart by school, Dumbledore, and his required summers at the Dursleys. This collection of photos showed a side of Sirius that Harry had never known, had never even thought to ask about. He didn’t know who his Secret Santa was. He didn’t even know how they’d gotten those pictures. But he couldn’t imagine a better gift.

He took a deep breath, trying to fight off the tears. He missed Sirius so much. He closed the curtains on his bed, curled up under his duvet with the collection of photos and leafed through it for the rest of the afternoon, oblivious to Ron and Hermione’s frantic search for him, forgetting about the classes he was supposed to attend.

 

* * *

 

Harry woke up with a start and groaned. His neck was painfully stiff. He pushed himself upright on the sofa and cursed. He’d fallen asleep. He’d fallen asleep! After receiving childhood pictures of Sirius, Harry needed to know who his Secret Santa was. He couldn’t wait, he couldn’t go on not knowing. So after all was quiet, he had slipped out of his room under his Invisibility Cloak and installed himself in a corner of the Common Room. He’d stay awake all night and see who put something in his stocking.

The fire in the hearth had died down to a mere glow, but at least the cloak was keeping him warm. He rolled his neck carefully and yawned. His arms stretched painfully, and it was only then that he noticed that someone had taken the trouble to put a blanket over him. It was warm and heavy, a dark green wool, and covered him from shoulders to feet. His head was still hidden under the cloak, though. Who had done this? And why? He heard voices approaching through the corridors and quickly whipped his head free from the cloak. They’d see the shape of his body under that blanket, anyway. There was no point in remaining hidden. A moment later, Terry Boot and Ernie MacMillan came into the Common room. They looked surprised to find Harry there, and he shrugged, a little sheepishly. “Fell asleep on the sofa,” he mumbled, by way of explanation. He bundled the blanket around his cloak so he could take both to his room. His hand caught on something sharp and he dropped the bundle with a sudden exclamation. It was a note, pinned to the blanket. Harry recognised his Secret Santa’s handwriting.

 

_ Not very sporting of you to try and catch me out. Consider the blanket today’s gift. It’s made of yeti hair, and it will always have just the right temperature to make you comfortable, warm in winter and cooler on hot summer days. You were shivering so I thought I best make sure you didn’t catch pneumonia. _

_ Secret Santa _

_ PS - Not sure where you got that cloak but it is an amazing thing. Just not quite long enough to cover you from head to toe when you are sprawled out on the sofa. Also, you snore. _

 

Harry made a noise between a snort and a curse and hurried to his room. He could catch another hour’s sleep yet, and he’d rather do that in bed than on that uncomfortable sofa. He rolled his neck again, wincing at the strain on the stiff muscles. He wrapped himself in the green blanket and fell asleep, surrounded by the scent of sandalwood and pine.

He was not surprised, somehow, to find a foul-smelling salve in his stocking a few hours later. “ _ For your neck _ ”, the label read. Hermione only had to take one sniff to declare it a muscle relaxant and quite safe to use. “Honestly, Harry, I thought even you would recognise the stench of dittany and spearmint combined.” 

Harry didn’t feel like arguing. He let her rub the salve into his painful neck and shoulder muscles, trying to suppress a groan when she kneaded one muscle especially hard. But not five minutes later he could move without pain again, and his disappointment at not catching his secret santa disappeared with it.

 

* * *

 

Friday morning came cold and bright. Everyone was giddy with anticipation for the last day of term, and the last day of Secret Santa. On Saturday the Hogwarts Express would take everyone back to London for the Christmas holidays, but this morning, a cheery chaos reigned the castle. 

The eighth-year common room was buzzing with excitement. The last presents were the grandest of all. Harry had given Hermione a portable library, which had made her squeal so loudly that, for a moment, nothing else could be heard in the entire castle. He had signed his name with that present and Hermione flew around his neck, kissing both cheeks enthusiastically and, unfortunately for his ears, still squealing with excitement. 

Harry hugged her but his own eyes went to his stocking, which bulged suspiciously, and he had to refrain from shoving her out of the way to find his own present. She finally let go and skipped down the corridor to her room, ready to transfer all the books in her possession into her new toy. 

Harry finally made his way to his stocking and found a large square box in brushed silver. The extravagant size of it drew a lot of attention and gradually the buzz in the common room died down, while everyone tried to see what was inside.

Harry lifted the lid and was almost disappointed to see merely a small globe. It almost looked like a soap bubble, fragile, sheer, with a rainbow sheen. He stared at it, unsure what to do next. 

Malfoy looked over his shoulder and let out a whistle. “Someone must really like you, Potter,” he said, with less than his customary sneer. Harry looked up with a questioning gaze. “Pick it up, Potter. See what’s inside.”

Harry blinked and stared at the ball again. “It’s empty, Malfoy, surely you can see that?”

Malfoy only snorted and retreated. 

Harry frowned after him, then bent over the box again. Surely this delicate thing would break? He wasn’t sure what it was for, but it was beautiful. He reached out gingerly, and, to his surprise, the ball felt solid under his fingertips. He lifted it out of the box. It was a lot heavier than he’d expected. 

“Tap it with your wand and say  _ Musica _ ,” Malfoy suggested from the other side of the room. Harry glared over his shoulder towards the man, but did as he was told.

The globe spread a soft golden glow and began to float just above his hand. It turned in the air and, as Harry was watching, open-mouthed, began to play a lilting tune. As it spun faster and faster, the globe seemed to transform into a flower. 

Harry’s hand dropped in his lap. It was a lily. 

He swallowed with difficulty. The song was familiar, a tune he was sure he’d heard before, could almost remember, but the words seemed to be just outside his grasp. “What’s that song?” He could hardly recognise his own voice, it was that hoarse with emotion.

“Morgana’s Lullaby.” Malfoy’s voice seemed to come from far away. “My mum used to sing it for me.”

Harry frowned. He couldn’t look away from the beautiful rainbow lily that materialised in front of his eyes, playing that entrancing song. “But how would I--” He stopped. Even while he was speaking, he understood how he could know the song. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no further sound came out. He never noticed that the common room emptied, slowly, leaving him sitting on the floor by his stocking, staring at the lily spinning in the air before him.

 

* * *

 

Harry didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, nor how long he’d been crying. He only realised time had passed when someone sat down next to him, tapped the spinning lily with a quiet ‘ _ Finite’ _ and caught the sheer globe deftly in one hand. 

Harry blinked and accepted the tissue he was offered. He wiped away his tears, refusing to look at the person next to him.

“I didn’t mean to make you unhappy with this.”

Harry shook his head, his eyes still stubbornly trained on the wall. He cleared his throat to get his voice under control, then said quietly, “I’m not unhappy. I just never thought I’d have any memories of my parents. And now…” He swallowed to try and get rid of the lump in his throat. “I can almost remember her singing to me when I hear the music.” He wiped another stray tear away. “I can almost remember her voice.”

A hand patted him awkwardly on the shoulder in what Harry thought was meant to be a comforting manner.

“How did you know? The things you gave me… It wasn’t like other people’s secret santas. You knew. You knew you were giving me something that was meaningful.” He still couldn’t bring himself to face the person next to him, but he had recognised the voice.

“I think I just know you a lot better than you might think.” Harry took a deep breath to interrupt, but the hand on his shoulder squeezed in warning. “I don’t mean The Boy Who Lived Twice or anything like that, although I admit I know everything they wrote about you in those articles. I meant you, the real you. The Harry Potter who loves flying above everything and will not take care of himself afterwards so he ends up with pneumonia. The Harry Potter who dearly misses his godfather and regrets never getting to know him any better. The Harry Potter who hides under a charmed cloak to try and catch out his secret santa but falls asleep while waiting.” There was a smile behind the words. “I admit, however, that I didn’t guess how meaningful this present would be. I only thought of the lily and your mother. But maybe it was just meant to be.” The hand fell off Harry’s shoulder and he suddenly felt very cold and alone. 

“Why? Why did you give me these things? Why do you act like you… like you care?” He had to force himself to speak those last words. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Because I do care.” 

Harry blinked again, then slowly his head turned until his eyes met those of Theodore Nott, who looked rather more insecure than he had ever seen him before. His voice lowered to a whisper so quiet Harry almost didn’t hear it. “I always cared.”

“You did?” 

“Couldn’t you see that in my gifts? I thought it was providence that gave me your name for this secret santa lark, but of course…” Nott sighed and bent his head. His lips turned into a wry smile. “I should’ve known subtlety was lost on Gryffindors.”

Harry huffed. “I thought we tried to get beyond house stereotypes this year.” 

Nott pushed himself up from the floor. “I need to get to Potions.” He didn’t look at Harry again. “Have a good Christmas, Potter.”

But before he could stalk off, Harry grabbed his hand and used it as leverage to get up. They were standing so closely together Harry could see flecks of gold in Nott’s blue eyes. Blue eyes that looked at him with apprehension and thinly veiled hope. 

“I always wondered why you were so distant around me,” he said, more to himself than to Nott. One hand still held on to Notts wrist, the other went up to his face, fingertips brushing his cheeks and chin, scraping over a light stubble that Harry quite liked the feel of. His fingers went back and forth for the longest time, just sensing, touching, feeling. He was still looking at Nott, drowning in the blue of his eyes, reaching for the gold as his pupils widened and pushed the colours to the edge. 

“Don’t play games with me, Potter.”

His sharp voice brought Harry back to himself. He cocked his head a little, studying Theo as if he saw him for the very first time. He slowly cupped Theo’s cheek, then brought their faces closer together until their lips were less than an inch apart. 

“I’m not playing,” he said. He leaned forward but Theo pulled back simultaneously, putting a hand on his chest to stop him. 

“You don’t even know me, Harry.” 

Harry straightened a little. He could see that insecurity again, the apprehension in Theo’s eyes, the flicker of hope that was forcibly extinguished. His heart beat wildly against his ribs, so furiously that he was sure it would burst out of his chest at any moment. The scent of pine and sandalwood sent his head spinning. He tightened his grip on Theo’s wrist. 

“I don’t know you as well as you know me,” he admitted, “but I know enough about you to be able to decide I’d like to get to know you better.” He leaned in again until he could feel Theo’s breath, short, sharp bursts, on his lips. The tip of his tongue ran along his lips to moisten them. “And I know enough about me to decide, right now, that I want to be more than friends.” It took a lot of the legendary Gryffindor courage to push those words out of his mouth, and when they hung in the air between them, he waited, with bated breath, for Theo’s next move. 

A myriad of emotions flashed over Theo’s face, doubt, fear, hope, hesitation. Then his face tensed and Harry knew he had made a decision. He licked his lips again.

The touch of Theo’s lips sent fireworks racing down his spine. They were soft and warm against his, a little chapped from the winter cold, pliant, hesitant, unsure. Harry drew him closer, a fist clutching his jumper and one hand moving to the back of his neck. 

As he didn’t move away, Theo seemed to grow more confident, and when his teeth scraped lightly over his lower lip Harry couldn’t help the moan that escaped his throat. They broke apart, as if the sound had somehow broken the spell, and looked at each other, panting slightly, lips a little swollen and cheeks flushed with excitement. 

“Not a game?” Theo’s voice was hoarse, rasping, and another shiver went down Harry’s spine, settling and burning low in his stomach. He wanted to hear that voice more often, ragged, desperate, wanton.

“Definitely not a game,” Harry said. He wanted to say more, but noise from the entrance to the common room alerted them that other students were coming in. Harry grabbed Theo’s last gift and began to walk towards his corridor. He looked over his shoulder at Theo, who was still standing where he had left him, looking a little dazed. “Coming?” 

Theo shook his head a little, as if to shake off a dream, then met his gaze. One eyebrow rose, as if in question, a smirk forming on his lips. 

Harry turned bright red. “To my room, I mean. To… talk. Privately.” 

Theo nodded, still smirking, and followed him.


End file.
